I lose poems written
by the long dead monarch "me"
in the liquid hues moving
across cheap gessobord.

Call it the lost art of disillusionment
treated as dreams imbued
with defeat.

"Viva la revolution"
screamed from every rooftop
and useless street
by the youth who refuse to
eat or drink anything
but silver spoons full of ellipses
confused as spots where ink...

My eyes have been wide.